


Six Words

by Sarai



Series: Stars from Home [7]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Christmas, Hanukkah, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3165143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarai/pseuds/Sarai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's December, 1963--a first Christmastime at the Xavier Institute!</p><p>Ororo cares more about the season itself, about her first chance to touch snow. For Scott and Alex Summers, it's the first Christmas as family since their parents died. And while Charles believes in giving gifts, he knows the only thing he's hoping to receive is near impossible: a kiss under mistletoe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December 10, 1963

"Today we are going to learn about Abraham Lincoln and how everything you think you know about Abraham Lincoln is nonsense. Who knows something about Abraham Lincoln? No shyness. Anything. Anything at all!" Ruth declared.

She was the history teacher at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Her English was fluent but thickly accented—more thickly when she was angry, less so in calm moments like this one.

"Who's Abraham Lincoln?" The question came from Ororo Munroe, thirteen years old and as keen on sitting still as she was on algebra.

"Um. The President?" Doug Ramsey knew that much, at least, and the nervousness of giving Ruth the wrong answer was overpowered by a need to point out the obvious.

"Hey." Scott Summers shook his head. He wasn't the oldest student, but he had been there the longest and was the only big brother, both responsibilities he took seriously.

"Oh—right. Sorry, Ororo."

Ororo shrugged. She had a history of almost no formal schooling until the past few months. She was learning not only to speak English but to read and write it. Not knowing an American President wasn't the sort of thing to be surprised by.

It was not the sort of thing that embarrassed her, either.

"I thought Johnson was the President," she said.

"Yeah…"

Everyone else had a look of sadness at the mention. Three weeks ago, John F. Kennedy was the President. It didn't bother Ororo—of course she was sad for the man whose head burst like a too-ripe melon, but the greater impact of this death was lost on her.

"Abraham Lincoln was the sixteenth President of the United States," Scott said. "He was President during the Civil War and delivered the Gettysburg Address. And then an actor shot him. Right, Ruth?"

Ruth confirmed that all of this was correct. "Does anyone know the Gettysburg Address?" Only one person nodded, so she said, "Scott. Let's hear it."

He delivered the speech in a considerably less impressive manner than one imagined Abraham Lincoln would have used. Abraham Lincoln hadn't mumbled or bit at his cuff, for example, and probably spoke with more passion.

When he finished, Doug jumped in, "Abraham Lincoln wanted to free the slaves. He initiated the Civil War for this purpose."

"Did he?" Ruth asked.

"Yes?" It was a question more than an answer.

"Not so much. The South initiated the Civil War," Ruth explained, "and President Lincoln was willing to let slavery endure if that would keep the union intact. So in a way one might say that it was the South that ended slavery."

This drew surprised looks from Doug and Scott, who had learned about the Civil War before—but never in those terms.

"Where was he shot?" Ororo asked.

Scott supplied, "In the theatre," and everyone laughed.

Doug mimed shooting himself in the head.

"Oh, like-"

"Ororo." Ruth shook her head. It was too soon for a joke about President Kennedy.

"Sorry. Why is history class in the kitchen?"

It was a fair question.

Ruth had informed them that morning that history class was optional today, as she would be busy by that time in the afternoon. Anyone still inclined was welcome. Scott, Ororo, and Doug chose to attend and had all been handed potatoes to grate. It was a cold day, but the windows were steamed thanks to a very warm oven and the room had a smell that made everyone's mouth water.

Every night but pizza night, Ruth controlled the kitchen. More than once, she had been asked if she minded being the only woman on staff and also the cook. She had a three-pronged response. She would point out the respect and appreciation she was given, that every other person in the house assisted with the cooking and cleaning, and then challenge whoever said it to arm wrestle.

So the kitchen was Ruth's domain, but this was earlier preparation than usual.

"Because tonight is the first night of Hanukkah," she replied.

The kids exchanged uncertain looks. It was Doug who asked, "Isn't that a religious observance?"

Ruth shrugged. "Not so much. Cultural. There are religious aspects but this I do in private."

"Good," Scott grumbled, "because I don't pray."

There was so much resentment in that statement, the others paused to stare at him.

"No," Ruth assured him. "No one would ask you to."

"Good."

"But you do eat."

Scott was a fifteen-year-old boy and ran several miles a day. His metabolism called for more fuel than a train out of Newcastle.

"So, uh, our part in this?" Doug asked.

"Hanukkah food—food is a big part of Hanukkah. We are making latkes. Hanukkah was the miracle of the oil lasting for eight nights. Oil… fried food. Latkes tonight." Ruth thought for a moment, then, with a grin on her face, "Maybe sufganiyot this weekend. They are like, ah, _donuts_! Strawberry filling."

Doug lit up. "Can we have churros? Please?"

"What are churros?" Ororo asked.

"Seriously?" Doug looked for support from Scott, then Ruth. Neither showed recognition of the word. "Delicious sweet cinnamon-sugar fried dough. Like doughnuts, but better. Ruth, please?"

"If I can find a recipe," Ruth agreed. "Nothing is better than sufganiyot, but, I like you." She stood and retrieved three onions from the freezer, then began to slice into them. "Are we finished discussing Mr. Lincoln?"

"He was tall," Scott offered.

"Gargantuan," Doug added. "Massive—scrawny, but monumental."

He laughed at a joke no one else had heard.

The discussion of Lincoln continued. It was educational for Ororo and even Doug and Scott picked up some new information. They knew they were free to leave whenever they wished and after a while Doug and Ororo went to play cards. Scott helped Ruth wash the dishes.

"Does it bother you?" she asked. "The Hanukkah meal?"

Scott shook his head.

The kitchen felt quiet with the others gone, only their voices and the water running in the sink.

"If this is a problem for you—"

"No one else is Jewish," Scott interrupted. "No one."

"Hanukkah is not about being Jewish. Hanukkah is about being with family and being happy and remembering. Charles, Hank, you—you are my family. Grilled cheese? Instead?"

Scott gaped at her.

"You and me. Grilled cheese, Oreos…"

The woman knew him.

"But… but… all this?"

"I want you to sit and have dinner with everyone else. If you are not comfortable with it, though—and why should you be? Hanukkah is about family. Besides, if I drove you away, then I would need to know that you are not alone."

Scott stared for a moment. It was true that he had never had a family, but rare that someone stated it so matter-of-factly. That was like calling out the Professor for his wheelchair.

Then again, she mentioned the wheelchair plenty.

"I'm not Jewish."

"I know. This is for me. Hanukkah for me means good food with people I care about. There are prayers, yes, and candles, but this is more like… the Easter egg hunt. You know of this tradition? Easter eggs have nothing to do with Christ and yet are associated with his resurrection."

All of this was met with a blank stare, communicated in the way only a teenager can. When Scott wanted to, he retreated into himself, became unreadable. Other times he showed precisely what he meant to in spite of his dark glasses, and this was one such time.

Worst of all, Ruth was right. Scott had never considered that before, but he wasn't sure how the Easter Bunny and Jesus knew each other. They both just _were_ —although he assumed the Easter Bunny came about in a more traditional way.

Scott was fifteen years old. He bit his lip to keep from laughing at the allusion to mating. That would ruin his glowering, too.

* * *

 

Outside, Ororo watched the rain whip around. It battered the trees and stones. If she concentrated, really concentrated, could she make rain hard enough to leave pocks in the driveway?

That wasn't what she wanted.

In Arabic, her first language, she said, "Tell me again."

Doug stood beside her, watching the rain. Neither of them wore a raincoat or carried an umbrella. Ororo kept them dry, her power commanding the rain to swirl around them.

"It's like ice," he replied, "only lighter, fluttering to the ground rather than crashing like hail. It melts when it touches your hands and clings to everything. It's very cold, colder than rain, and more solid. It's cohesive—clings to everything, even itself, especially itself. Hides things when it falls, muffles sounds…"

Doug trailed off when he saw Ororo's shoulders tense in frustration. His answers were not the answer she wanted and the only other answers in his mind were those Professor Xavier would give about being patient and appreciating her power as it was.

Could Doug help it if Professor Xavier was right? But catch Ororo accepting _that_ for an answer.

"Again."

Doug shook his head. "I don't know what else to tell you," he admitted. Everything he knew about snow she had heard several times now, but he knew nothing scientific beyond what he learned in fourth grade and most of that he had forgotten.

Lightning snapped overhead and clearly not naturally.

"It'll snow soon," Doug tried to reassure her. When it did, Ororo would understand what snow was rather than trying to force rain to match her expectations.

She lived most of her life in Cairo and later in the Great Lakes region of Africa. Although she had spent several months in New York, she had yet to see snow. Surely she would during the winter. She wasn't quite patient enough to simply wait, though. If she could make rain and lightning, why not snow?

"The air feels wet here," she said. "Back in the village, when I took the water to make rain, it was truly taking. I used it and others could not."

"It wasn't your fault," Doug replied. He spoke English and because of his training was able to recognize that Ororo was speaking in Arabic, but he heard the words as English, as the language he knew. "It was unintentional. You were learning."

"I know that," Ororo snapped, like asking how he could dare to imply otherwise, but Doug knew it was a front.

Doug shrugged and scratched at his neck. It really wasn't her fault. He heard the Professor say to Ruth—not that he was eavesdropping, he just _heard_ —that it was deeply unfair, what happened to Ororo, that so young a child should have so heavy a power. He doubted saying that would help her much, since Ororo tended to dislike being considered a child.

Lightning flicked once more, punishing a patch of sky, and Doug could not help thinking that for someone who hated being considered a child Ororo sulked awfully like one.

He scratched at his neck again. Scott's cat must have brought in fleas. That or Doug was just downright uncomfortable knowing how tough this was for Ororo and not sure how to help her. He wasn't sure why the snow mattered so much—besides, if he had Ororo's power, he would be content. If he had any real power he would be content.

"Would you be bothered if I left you alone?"

"No," Ororo replied. She sounded perfectly content now. "I'm fine."

Doug stood, stretched, and headed indoors.

He knew who he wanted to find. He passed Hank, who nodded his furry blue head in greeting, and nearly bumped into Laurie as they both turned a corner. The fourth and final student at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, Laurie was sixteen years old with blond hair and a severe look on her face most of the time.

"Hey Dougie."

"Hey Laurie-ie. You missed history class."

"Yeah, Ruth said it was optional. I figured everyone else would, too."

"We talked about Lincoln. He had stepsiblings—isn't that strange? Of course everyone knows the President was a child once, but one rarely considers his actual childhood."

Laurie nodded, although she was clearly less fascinated by Abraham Lincoln's childhood than Doug was. "That's interesting," she placated. "Do you want to do something? I mean—I was going to study—I really should, um, for that science test?"

Doug understood. "I should study, too. Maybe later?"

"Sure."

Laurie continued on her way and Doug on his. Soon enough he stopped and knocked at a closed door.

"Come in."

Doug liked a lot about the school. He liked his peers; he liked the other teachers, Ruth and Hank; he liked Alex and Sean, who were not students but felt quite a like friends. He liked a place where they could talk openly about mutation and the almost magic of the others' abilities.

However, he appreciated no one and nothing more than Professor Xavier. The man knew everything, always, but would listen even though you were telling him old news.

Doug did precisely that after settling in the Professor's office: "I've been wondering if I should return following the, uh, adjournment."

Professor Xavier regarded him steadily, offering nothing.

"Professor," Doug reasoned, "I'm not a mutant like anyone else. I can't _do_ anything. I like this place but I worry I don't belong here."

For a long moment, the Professor said nothing. There were few mutants in the world at this time—more than one might think, but not enough for a real school, either. There were few enough that the Professor and Ruth worked with each of the students individually.

"You truly believe that you can't do anything?" he asked.

He clearly disagreed and oozed pity. Doug stood by his statement: "Not like the others."

"Do you remember the day Ruth and I first spoke with you?"

"Yes, of course."

It had only been a few months ago. Doug had been grounded for a plummeting grade in French; it was the summer after his first F. He didn't know what happened. Everything just stopped being in French. He didn't understand how that happened or why there was suddenly so much tension in the house.

"You're here because you needed to learn to control your gift," the Professor said, "and we have more work to do toward that end."

Doug nodded.

"I can't and won't tell you what to do—well, I can. But I won't. I believe you have a place here and belong here, that it's a benefit to you and to the other students. It's your choice, but I hope you'll choose to return."

"Thank you."

"Your ability, Doug. You have the gift of understanding others. That's a very powerful thing."

He still wondered whether he truly belonged here, a moment's reassurance could not fully repair those doubts, but he felt a little better. Not having a power with a physical manifestation made him feel like a half-mutant. He was neither human nor fully not.

* * *

 

Doug's sense of discomfort faded at dinner. He found himself distracted in part by Charles and Ruth. Neither talked much, but the occasional moment when their eyes met brought out a rare part of the Professor. How was it possible anyone missed that yearning?

Doug tried not to think about it, not to think about his teachers that way. Besides, it's difficult to sulk around so many boisterous people, particularly when there were… um… "Ruth, what are these called again?"

The question came not from Doug but Sean.

"Latkes."

Sean rolled the word around in his mouth, murmuring it, then shrugged and settled for taking a giant bite out of another one. The potatoes the kids grated during that afternoon's history discussion had been put to good use. At the time, it seemed like too many potatoes.

Doug helped himself to another latke and decided there was no such thing as too many potatoes. And that he liked Hanukkah.

"Ow!"

Scott sat bolt upright. Doug hadn't managed to maintain a sulk but the same could not be said of Scott, who explained away his outburst, "Um… I bit my tongue."

His brother, Alex, sat opposite him with a huge grin on his face. Alex was in his mid-twenties while Scott was a teenager, but Alex picked on him like they were both kids. It was okay, good-natured. Anyone could see they loved each other.

Doug was jealous as anything. He knew it was unseemly, Scott and Alex being his friends, but he was an only child. He could not imagine having someone like that. The Summers boys played rough, but they had a way of shoving, punching, and twisting arms that was downright affectionate, and anyone who crossed one of them had the other to answer to.

As though reading his mind, Alex announced, "Scott used to be a bed-wetter."

Scott's eyebrows rose so high Doug knew his eyes were bugging behind those glasses.

"Alex, is that relevant?" Professor Xavier asked.

"I'm just sayin'," Alex offered, like that was any defense.

"So did you," Scott shot back, a terrible defense because it was an implicit admission. Realizing this a moment too late, "And like you would even remember!" but everyone was laughing. "How do you remember that?

"I don't," Alex replied, pleased with himself.

"Oh, you motherf—" Scott caught the warning look on the Professor's face and amended, "—riender." Even Doug had to laugh at that. "Friending friendbag!"

Sean swallowed a mouthful of what had to be his fourth latke that evening and commented, "Also, 'friend' isn't a verb. It doesn't make sense as a verb."

"Yes it friending does!" Alex retorted. "Haven't you ever… made a friend?"

Sean rolled his eyes. "No, I mean, literal friend, not friend-in-quotation-marks."

Ororo giggled. "That's pretty friending stupid," she remarked to no one in particular, savoring the pseudo-obscenity.

Professor Xavier didn't like swearing, even though popular speculation was that he and Ruth both swore like sailors in private. So this not-swear of a perfectly acceptable word had the younger members of the household in stitches.

"Not to mention friending redundant," Hank piped up.

Even Charles looked surprised at Hank joining in. "For God's sake, Hank!"

"It is," Hank replied, matter-of-factly like this was a science experiment. "'Befriend' is already a word."

At which point, still thinking of a certain substitution, Scott began to laugh. He pressed his hands over his mouth, but it did no good. His shoulders began to shake and his face turned bright pink. Alex turned to congratulate Hank, who seemed genuine uncertain as to the source of the hilarity.

Doug hadn't spoken. He just enjoyed the conversation around him. Perhaps understanding everything he heard made him more sensitive to the voices of others, perhaps it was simply his nature. Whatever the cause, he enjoyed it. He enjoyed hearing the mirth in those familiar voices.

He still had not decided whether or not to return, not in the hour since his talk with Professor Xavier, but he had a tougher go of it now. After all, how could he leave them behind?


	2. December 16, 1963 (Part I)

"Ororo!"

Another time, the urgency in that voice would have spurred her out of bed: low, whispered, insistent. Someone needed her.

"Ororo!"

But it was freezing, literally _freezing_ , and she was tired. She snuggled deeper under the covers. Whatever was happening couldn't be urgent and she would take her revenge later on the red-eyed moron who woke her up at—what obscene hour of the morning was this?

Then Scott muttered six words that changed her tune entirely:

"Do you wanna build a snowman?"

Ororo's eyes opened. She sat up, pushing back the covers. Scott must have turned on the lamp by the bed and she still wanted, a little bit, to kick him. Instead she offered a nod and a huge grin.

"C'mon. Dress warm."

The floor sent needles of cold into her feet, but Ororo didn't care. She yanked off the shirt she had slept in, causing Scott to spin away and stare at the wall. She swallowed a giggle: she always forgot how modest he could be. You would think no one so much as unbuttoned their collar in America.

She wriggled into her tights. She didn't care for the things, really—they bunched at the knees and toes and were a massive hassle when she needed to pee—but they kept her warm. Over that she wore her sweatpants (usually reserved for gym class), an ill-fitting paisley dress, and two sweaters. The entire ensemble looked foolish, but it would keep her as warm as possible.

Finally she tied on her shoes and bounced to her feet.

"Come on!" she urged, like she had been wide awake the whole time and Scott was holding her up.

"Shh."

It was after sunrise but early yet. The mansion felt empty, even though only Doug and Laurie had gone home for the holidays. Somewhere, Hank was probably awake, tinkering with intricacies of science neither of them began to understand. Everyone else was likely asleep.

Ororo would have liked to race to the front door, but somehow the secrecy made everything more delightful.

She had never been so confined in Africa. Yes, she had struggled to find enough food to eat and never taken a hot shower, but no one restricted her much. Now there were rules. There were things like class and curfew and chores. So she enjoyed doing something secret, just because.

"Ah!"

Outside was a familiar burst of cold. Inside had been cold, but out here… she shivered. Had the ground not been coated in a pristine white blanket more enticing than water in the desert—and she would know—she might have fled back to her warm bed, huddled under the covers, and convinced Scott to bring her hot chocolate.

The only thing that stopped her playing the boy like a kazoo was knowing Laurie would do the same thing.

At the moment, he was watching her and grinning.

"Well?"

She bolted forward and leapt into the snow. It gave way a little, enough that she heard tiny crunches, but even though it looked like a blanket it was much harder than one. It had jagged edges. And—

"It's _wet_!"

"Of course," Scott replied.

Naturally, Ororo thought. He must have seen snow every winter, being an American.

She climbed to her feet, looked around… and paused. What did one do next? She knew a little of this strange, this magical stuff. But what was a snowman besides a picture in a primer like three stacked cotton balls? Was it really fun to make and if so how was it made? Now that she had seen snow, could she make it?

Something crashed into her shoulder and shattered. It hurt a little, not much, and touched her neck in insistent coldness. When she brushed off her shoulder, she realized what had happened.

Scott stood a few meters away, waiting for her to notice. Ororo scooped up a handful of snow and chucked it at him. The snow fell from her hand, none of it reaching anywhere near Scott. Ororo frowned and tried again.

"Here, I'll show you."

He came near enough for her falling-tossed snow to almost reach him.

"I'll figure it out," she snapped. Just because he was older and bigger and American and had been at the Xavier Institute longer, just because he read better and ran faster, did not mean she needed his help with everything!

He shrugged.

She tried throwing harder, which also did not work.

Bam! Another snowball hit her, on the chest this time.

If she had been watching, she would have seen how Scott did it and known how to make a snowball properly. She hadn't.

She scowled at him.

Scott stuck out his tongue.

Oh, that was enough. That was more than enough!

Ororo grinned. The way she shifted her weight gave him a split second's warning, all Scott needed. She tried to bolt after him. 'Bolting' in this snow proved less successful: it shifted under her feet. Her first few steps were uneven, slipping and compensating for the uneven ground.

She chased him around the side of the mansion. He should have been long gone by then. If Scott wanted to be alone, only Hank or Ruth could catch him, and that only because their powers gave them enhanced speed. Ororo should not have been able to.

Well, he was asking for it, wasn't he?

She chased him, caught him, and tackled him. The snow cushioned Scott's fall and Scott cushioned Ororo's. He was already reacting by the time he hit the ground, grasping her and rolling to pin her to the ground. She wrenched her shoulders to throw him off.

Gym class at the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters (which, as Ororo knew, was a mouthful of words that meant "mutant place") was slightly unusual. They had the running and stretching exercises to which every other school subjected its students, but the bulk of class went to martial arts training. So the two young mutants scuffling in the snow were more than making things up.

Scott usually worked with one of the other boys. He was stronger than Doug, although smaller, and generally able to best Sean in the space of a breath. It was his brother to whom he was best matched, which suited them both since, as brothers, they naturally preferred beating the hell out of each other. It was like saying 'I love you', only something boys did.

Ororo, meanwhile, worked with Ruth in gym class. She was a thirteen-year-old girl in a class with older boys, men, and Laurie (who refused to fight so what was the point). None of them felt comfortable hitting or throwing Ororo, so Ruth did it.

As a result, Ororo was completely undermatched with Scott. He was hesitant. She was enthusiastic.

"Wait, wait—my glasses!"

Ororo paused. Should she wait? Yes, Scott hated losing his glasses, and she knew perfectly well the reason… but he threw snowballs at her!

He ended up with snow rubbed into his hair.

Then she picked up his glasses, which had fallen into the snow, and handed them back.

They did build a snowman after she let him up. "It's like this," he explained, packing together what she guessed would have been a snowball if he had thrown it at her. Instead he pushed it along the ground. Ororo watched with a default skeptical impression until she saw that the snowball really did grow large enough to be the base of the snowman.

"I wanna try!" she announced, grabbing a handful of snow for the second section. It wasn't quite as easy to roll as Scott made it look and her bare hands stung. She kept at it, though.

This was supposed to be fun. Right? And in spite of the stinging cold and general pointlessness, it _was_ fun.

They were breathless, cold-stung and laughing by the time they returned indoors. They paused to take off their shoes. Ororo found that snow had soaked into the canvas, which explained her aching toes, and the laces, which made them difficult to pick apart.

The others were awake now, the—what had the Professor called it?—the _foyer_ was bright. Voices carried in a way that would have been eerie, had Ororo and Scott not recognized the speakers. Instead they were pleasant, making the house feel like home.

"Ugh, these _layers_!"

"Ororo!" Scott sounded utterly scandalized.

"What?"

He sighed and didn't answer. She knew anyway: she had hiked up her skirt to peel off her wet sweatpants. Since she was in the area, she peeled off her tights, too. They were damp in some places and soaked in others and uncomfortable all over.

"Hey, you have some snow…" Scott brushed at Ororo's head, then, "No, wait. Just your hair."

She grinned wickedly.

That was all the warning Scott needed: he took off running.

Charles Xavier was having a very different morning, though Ororo and Scott were the first thing he felt aware of. He heard them laughing outside. Partly, they reminded him of himself and Raven, how surprised he had felt to enjoy playing when he suddenly had a friend. More than that, the intense cliché of children's laughter was nevertheless a delightful sound.

It didn't change the fact that he was, at thirty, sitting in a wheelchair with a blanket tucked around his legs. The blanket was a necessity—although useless, his legs were quite capable of becoming infected and he wouldn't feel it.

He brewed a pot of tea and settled in the sitting room before searching for the others telepathically. Alex, Sean, and Hank were asleep. Ororo and Scott were outside, happily building a snowman. And Ruth…

"Good morning, Ruth."

She nodded. "Good morning."

"Join me?"

He offered a cup of tea.

"Thank you."

Ruth settled in an armchair and sipped her tea. She held the cup delicately, between her fingertips. She regarded him over the rim of the cup and raised her eyebrows.

He had no idea what she meant, but it made him laugh.

And ache.

A few years ago, Ruth would not have been his type. It was strange, because he had no trouble imagining her going to bed for a little recreation with some man she met at the pub—which had been precisely his type—but those had been young women, university students like himself. When he read their minds, he listened not for thoughts but for tones. He identified the ones who wanted to meet _someone_.

He identified the ones, like himself, who wanted to fuck.

They weren't like Ruth. They didn't make him laugh because they were funny; he laughed because it put them in the right mood.

Wouldn't it be nice, though? Lovely, if she would look at him that way, but of course she wouldn't. Not with him like this, not that way and him half a man. For all she knew, he couldn't—and he wanted so much more, to be so much more to her, but she would not see it.

"Charles?"

He shook himself. "I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

"Plans for the holidays," Ruth clarified.

He laughed. "I'll be here."

"As will I," she replied, "but I am not a reader. Well, not so much." She majored in history. That interest rarely changed.

"Do they have Christmas where you're from?"

"You mean in Israel?" she asked. She laughed. "Yes, there are many Christians in Bethlehem and Jerusalem. This where their messiah walked, these places matter to them."

"But not to you?" he wondered, trying to ignore the warm pink feeling that accompanied blushing. It had been a while since someone so firmly knew better than he did.

Ruth shrugged. "I do not believe in Jesus Christ. I do believe in keeping these places safe for people today."

"Really?"

The question came not from Charles but Scott, standing in the doorway. He was an odd mix of reality and illustration, as happy as a kid ought to be after playing in the snow, coupled with red glasses, shabby clothes, and overgrown hair.

"I mean," Scott amended, looking at his shoes. He hadn't intended to interrupt. "Just—because you're religious—and stuff—or I thought…"

"I am observant," Ruth confirmed, "I am an observant Jew."

"So—"

He didn't ask. A blur tackled him.

Charles looked to Ruth. He addressed plenty of behavior issues with the students. With arguments, injustices, doubts, and questions—if Scott wanted things settled with Alex, he went to Charles for mediation. If he wanted to settle things himself, he trusted Ruth to stop Alex from doing permanent damage.

This time Ruth watched for a while.

"Only play," she determined.

When the students finished scuffling and climbed to their feet, Charles asked, "Did you actually go outside dressed that way?"

"She had tights," Scott said.

"And sweats," Ororo added.

He nodded. That was slightly reassuring, though Scott's wet hoodie and the holes in his jeans were discouraging.

Scott must have understood, because he offered, "They're the ones with the least holes."

Charles glanced at Ruth. Despite his inability to understand most of her thoughts, he surmised they had the same idea. "Would you—"

"Oh yes," Ruth agreed.

"Is it too much to ask…"

"Today?"

He nodded. "If you wouldn't mind."

"Not at all."

Ororo looked at Scott.

He shrugged.

She inclined her head.

He shook his head.

She nodded.

He shook his head again, mouthing 'no'.

Ororo shrugged. " _Fine_ ," she hissed. "Ruth?" And then, for Scott's benefit, she asked a question in Arabic.

"We are going to go shopping," Ruth replied.

"What?" Scott asked.

Ororo grinned and asked another question. Her tone was excited, though Scott didn't understand a word of it.

"Yes, of course," Ruth replied.

"Um. Professor?" Scott asked. "I don't need to go shopping."

"You're going."

"But…"

A look from Charles silenced him. Many aspects of a normal—or at least less downtrodden—life were foreign to him and took some getting used to. Charles did not push him in most things, but the clothing situation had gone on long enough. There was no reason for Scott to look like he spent last night in a ditch. Anyone would think he wasn't being taken care of properly.

Ruth rested her hand on Charles's. He wished she wouldn't do that. It made him feel happy, warm, and calm, and close to her in ways he would never be.

"Oh! May I clear the driveway?"

Those words had never been spoken before in the mansion. (Of course, when Charles was growing up, he never had to shovel snow, but that was beside the point.)

He nodded. "Go ahead."

Scott grinned and bolted from the room.

Of course, he was not actually excited about shoveling snow, mostly because he did not intend to shovel. He ran back to his room and grabbed the visor off his dresser. The trouble with Scott's ability, besides the fact that it was beyond his control, was the danger. He could hurt people… kill people.

But the visor Hank designed, as dumb as it looked, had not broken in months. Scott never let his guard down, but he fiddled with the settings, growing more familiar every week. By now he _probably_ was _okay_ with it. So he _might_ be able to clear the snow.

Failing that, he would shovel the traditional way.

He started light. Because his power generated force but not heat, he ran no risk of causing ice. He supposed he would want to clear a path down the center first and… _zap!_

Okay, that had been less than ideal. A small hole, no more than a couple of inches deep, appeared in the snow.

A little more power wouldn't hurt…

After ten minutes of tinkering with the controls, he had a decent routine and five feet of clear road. He smiled. Sometimes being a mutant wasn't so bad.

The door opened and out spilled Alex and Sean.

"Yo, twerp, groovy!" Alex called. When Scott turned, Alex gave him a thumbs-up.

Scott grinned.

Then Alex cracked up. "My little bro, the snowblower."

"Huh?" Scott asked.

It was hilarious to Sean, too.

Scott regarded them for a moment. He considered accusing them of being jealous of his excellent snowblowing, but had the distinct impression that would not help.

Instead, he said, "I'm not your little brother. You're my little brother. You know…" Scott hesitated. He kicked at a clump of snow nearby. "Um, d'you—a while ago, you mentioned—do you remember… Mom an—"

Alex threw his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay, you're older!" he ceded.

Scott nodded. Something crossed his face, a wince of pain and then it was gone. "Yeah, well, as your big brother I think you're being rude."

"We're just teasing you," Alex said.

Scott jerked his head.

Alex and Sean both turned.

"Sorry, Ororo."

She was leaning against the wall, quietly staying out of the way. She could have helped, but preferred to perch nearby. Occasionally she sent a gust of wind to clear the snow Scott blasted off the road.

"Good morning, boys."

She peeled herself off the wall.

"Bet we clear more snow than you," she said.

Sean scoffed. "Yeah, right."

Ororo shrugged. "Me and Scott start at the end of the driveway…"

The three of them tossed insults and challenges back and forth. Ororo held her ground. It was something she needed to do sometimes and Alex and Sean meant well, but they were young. They could be pushed a little too far by a particularly aggravating thirteen-year-old. As for Ororo, she needed to be acknowledged once in a while instead of treated like "the kid". Or worse “the girl”—because Scott was a kid, too.

Meanwhile, Scott blasted away snow by the foot. By the time the others finished swaggering, the driveway was clean and they headed inside.

"Scotty," Alex remarked all over again, "you are the best snowblower of all time."

"Alexander Summers!"

Alex's jaw dropped. He managed not to swear, but it was a near thing. If he knew Charles was going to hear, he would have kept from saying it in the first place.

"You used to be cool," he accused.

"That is unnecessary," Charles retorted. Then he lied: "And untrue. I was never cool."


	3. December 16, 1963 – Part II

Ruth, Scott, and Ororo piled into Ruth's car.

"Seatbelts," Ruth reminded them.

Scott knew few people who insisted on seatbelt use, but did as Ruth said. A moment later he undid his seatbelt, leaned across Ororo, and buckled the seatbelt for her. Then he redid his own.

"When you want to get out, you push this button," he explained.

Ruth accelerated more swiftly than most would in snowy conditions, though slower than she usually would. It was still enough that Scott's eyebrows rose.

"Ruth, can we have the radio on?" Ororo asked.

Ruth turned on the radio.

"Aw, nice!"

Ororo looked sideways at Scott. "After three tones you know this song?"

"It's The Beatles," Scott said, like that was an explanation. He sighed at the uncomprehending look on Ororo's face. "Never mind." He would talk to Hank about it; Hank appreciated music properly.

They sat quietly for a while. Then Ororo said something in Arabic. From the way Ruth laughed, it was a joke.

"Good one," Ruth replied. "Do you know the one, what did the traffic light say to the car?"

Scott knew. "Don't look, I'm changing! What do you call it when you lend money to a bison?" Because no one answered, he supplied, "A buffa-loan. Get it?"

Ruth laughed.

"Buffa-loan," Scott repeated to Ororo. "Buffalo is another name for bison."

"Actually, they are different animals," Ruth replied. "It was something European settlers called American bison, but the name sticks, and now, we talk, both words mean the same. Have you ever seen one, _jaamuus,_ Ororo?"

From the way she grinned and the tone in her voice as she replied, she had seen a buffalo. And she enjoyed it.

"What about you, Scott?"

Scott leaned his head against the window. "Nah," he murmured. There had been a field trip, once. He might have seen a likeness, or maybe a post-taxidermy bison, but you had to bring money for the bus and lunch. Maybe they had them in Riverview Park, but he had never been there, either. "Just pictures."

Everything always came down to money.

When Ruth parked, Scott unbuckled his seatbelt, then leaned over and unbuckled Ororo's.

Ruth turned around from the front seat. "Okay," she said. "You." She pointed at Scott. "Can I trust you on your own?"

"Rather wait in the car," Scott said.

"You can wait in the car," Ruth replied, "but if you do, I will shop for you. There will be new clothes. You will wear them. So, whether they fit, whether you like them, this is the question. Oh, and your jeans will freeze to the seat when I turn the heat off. So I think you should come inside. But, ultimately… you want to stay…" She shrugged. "You stay. Okay."

As he listened to all of this, Scott had pulled his head away from the window. He nodded. "I'll go."

"Good choice. _Everything_ , understood?"

He nodded.

"What about me?" Ororo asked.

"You will be with me. There is a men's section and a women's section…"

The look on Ororo's face suggested she thought this was dumb. Scott had seen that look before and knew the vocabulary that accompanied it: confusing foreign American things that didn't make sense.

Ruth must have seen something else. "I'll show you," she said. "And they have a lunch counter. Be good and you can have cocoa. And M&Ms."

"Plain or peanut?" Scott asked.

"Huh?"

"Either," Ruth said. "Your choice. It is as it sounds, some are plain, some have peanuts," she explained to Ororo.

"Can I have a Snickers instead?"

"Scott, you are on the naughty list. Earn a Snickers, you have a Snickers."

Scott stuck out his hand and Ruth shook.

"Pajamas, too."

"Aw, c'mon!"

"What, I know your traditions, you think you can come down on Christmas morning and open your presents in your boxers?"

"Why would my Christmas present be there?"

"What?" Ororo asked.

Ruth rolled her eyes.

"I don't get Christmas presents."

Ruth raised an eyebrow.

"I don't _want_ Christmas presents, I don't like Christmas!"

"Hey—I don't want Christmas either!" Ororo leapt into the conversation. She did not really know what Christmas was or what it was about. She just knew she hadn't liked being shut out of the conversation. Besides, sometimes being a friend meant throwing your weight behind theirs.

"Oy," Ruth sighed. "Bribing you with chocolate is not enough? Fine. Get out of this car or I will drag you into the shop by the ears."

The kids traded glances and silently agreed that there was just enough chance Ruth might actually do it. They tumbled out of the car.

Inside, Scott peeled away. This was relatively simple for him. Growing up, he mostly wore clothes donated to the orphanage, but he still knew how shops worked.

Ororo inched closer to Ruth. She was used to wearing bits nicked from the _shuq_ , whatever loose pieces she nabbed to wrap around herself. Like Scott, she had worn hand-me-downs and donations in her brief stint at an orphanage. This was foreign, though.

"Ruth?"

"You wanted blue jeans, like the boys wear?" Ruth asked. Ororo had asked specifically for jeans. She did not like wearing skirts all the time, but she had only skirts, sweatpants, and a pair of shorts that were probably stolen from Salvation Army. Ruth led her to a rack of jeans. "Let's see… you are…" She glanced at Ororo. "…tiny. Take these into the little room over there and try them on."

Ororo nodded. She took an armful of denim from Ruth and walked over to the fitting room. Pants were… complicated. Skirts were okay, but the jeans would give her better protection for climbing trees and make her look the slightest bit less different.

She stuck out like a broken middle finger. The others at the school were white, except Hank, who was blue. _And_ Ororo had white hair! Straight white hair! No one had looked like her in Africa. Even in Cairo, and Cairo was a big city with a diverse population.

Light in Africa and dark in America. Ororo wasn't right anywhere. Maybe she could at least dress like everyone else.

She thought about this as she dumped the jeans in the fitting room and closed the door behind her. Then the lock clicked into place.

It sounded like something bigger. It echoed a thunder and crash and she felt the world collapsing around her, on top of her; she felt the world crumple and go away and pin her and she couldn't breathe, she couldn't—and rationally, she was in the fitting room, but her mind was back in Cairo and she was a little girl again—

Ororo's hands shook too badly for her to unlock the door. She fumbled with it—who designed these stupid rooms—who—the walls so high and close and the air went tight and full of whimpering noises that were not hers—

She dropped to the floor and squirmed under the fitting room door. Her knees and elbows rugburned as she went, and the moment she could, she climbed to her feet.

Ruth was only a few feet away. Ororo bolted into her arms.

"Shh." Ruth did not ask what was wrong. She just held Ororo and murmured soothing things until the girl stopped shaking.

"It was too little," Ororo explained. She sniffled. "It was too stupid small!"

"I know. They make these like rabbit cages."

Ororo nodded.

Ruth let her sulk for a while longer. Then, after a few minutes, said, "We are here and you do need new clothes—"

"No!"

"Trust me. Here. These are not ideal, but…" Ruth took a pair of overalls and held them against Ororo. "No." She tried another pair. "A little big, but this should do. Now come on. You can try on coats out here, and you need one."

Ororo refused to leave Ruth's side for the rest of the shopping expedition. At least until they reached the register, then Ruth told her, "Cover Scott's eyes."

"What?" both students asked.

"Cover his eyes. And you, please, do not tell me the amounts out loud," Ruth asked the cashier. "This one is uncomfortable about money."

"Oh, jeez," Scott moaned.

Ororo put her hands over Scott's glasses.

"That's not necessary."

"Ruth said so."

They knew Ruth was right. If Scott saw the numbers on the register, he wouldn't have been able to wear any of it, defeating the entire purpose. They would be back here in a week, or Ruth would anyway. Or Charles would take over Scott's mind and force him to wear his new clothes, but that felt excessive.

Hands still over Scott's eyes, Ororo asked, "Are we on the nice list?"

"Yes. You are both."

They had a deal and Ruth intended to keep it. Except the incident with the fitting room, which was too small anyway, the kids had been wonderful. She led them to the lunch counter.

"Hey, they got M&Ms!"

Scott went to investigate the candies.

"Plain and peanut."

Ororo would never understand why he cared so much. This boy barely batted an eyelash at things like extra homework or extra hours washing dishes. How could a person be so happy about little pieces of candy?

She was too busy wondering about Scott, at first, to notice that Ruth was holding a low, angry conversation with a waitress. Ororo looked around. The room was pointedly quiet and people were staring at her. This was more than the way people stared when a person looked different.

Scott slid beside her and squeezed her hand.

"What's going on?" she whispered.

Scott looked to Ruth.

Apparently Ruth was finished arguing. "Come on," she said, shepherding them towards the door.

"What happened?" Ororo asked.

Neither of them would tell her. She was used to Scott being bashful, but when Ruth refused to speak it was something serious. Then she hit the cold. The elements reached out to her. Outside, she knew. She remembered herself and she knew.

She howled.

The wind did, too.

"Ororo, stop it," Ruth said.

The wind flew at the doors. Since they opened outward, no one could leave. The temperature dropped and snow slammed against glass panes.

"Ororo!"

Overhead, her favorite, the lightning crackled.

The day had been cloudy ten minutes ago.

They had not been asked to leave ten minutes ago.

Ruth wrapped an arm around her. The restraint brought a swell of indignity to Ororo, enough to make her fight Ruth. The wind and the hail died down. Ororo squirmed, futilely, tried using her martial arts moves but it was Ruth who taught her. As long as she needed to, Ruth held Ororo and waited.

"Ororo?" Scott asked, gently.

He was shaking. He was calm, but trembling, and…

"Scott, your eyes," Ruth said.

"I'll blow it up if you want me to."

People were in there. They could die, would die, and Scott knew that.

"Into the car," Ruth snapped, "now!"

Everyone was quiet. Ororo shoved Scott away when he tried to help with her seatbelt. After about a minute, after Ruth pulled away from the curb, Ororo tapped his wrist. Scott leaned over. Keeping one hand in his pocket, he leaned over and fastened Ororo's seatbelt.

She leaned against the window.

The worst part was that she knew people in this country cared about the color of someone's skin. In the orphanage, the nuns acted like coming from Africa was the same as having a watery brain, like Africa was a single city rather than a continent Ororo had only seen a tiny piece of.

She gritted her teeth. It was her fault for turning soft. She was too used to life at the Institute, where everyone cared about being mutant on the inside more than black or white on the outside.

"Um, Ruth?" Scott asked.

He had calmed down now.

"I…" he managed, looking at the packet in his hand. "I stole M&M's."

The car went silent for a second. Then Ruth and Ororo burst out laughing and couldn't stop. Scott couldn't help joining in.

When everyone had finished snickering, Ruth asked, "Plain or peanut?"

* * *

 

"Alex?" Scott knocked again. "C'mon, Alex, I know you're in there!"

Alex opened the door.

"What's up?"

His bedroom was a mess. Even through the red, Scott saw that. The sheets needed changing on his bed, there were junk food wrappers, and the laundry was only vaguely in a pile. How could he live with that?

"Do you, uh... can I ask you… you know Hank said our power's the same?"

There had been more to it, but Alex nodded. "Yeah."

Ruth was telling the Professor now, if he hadn't already, about what happened. He had seen in their faces that something was wrong, but when he asked, Ruth simply said, "Scott stole M&Ms." She would tell him the truth, though. Sooner or later, the Professor would know that Scott had threatened to kill people.

Ororo didn't want to talk to anybody and had sulked the rest of the afternoon.

Scott had done likewise. Only, now, he needed to talk to someone else.

"What's it like when you lose control?"

Alex shrugged. "I just do."

"Do you glow?"

He was so screwed. He was supposed to be making progress and he had tried—he couldn't take the glasses off, but he was getting better with the visor. He used it all the time. Seeing someone treat his friend that way hurt. It was when Ororo looked ready to cry that Scott felt himself snap.

"Do I glow?" Alex repeated. He laughed. "No, Scotty, I don't glow."

"Oh."

Even Alex noticed the glumness in his brother. There was a reason he normally kept away from Scott when he was burned. Things were never simple with Scott, like he was afraid the stick would fall out of his—

But that was beside the point.

Alex straightened up. "Why? What happened?"

"Do you really not remember Alaska? Dad?"

"You _glow_?"

"No. Shut up. And clean your room! This place is a total embarrassment—the whole team's embarrassed of you!"

For a moment, Alex looked blank. Then he nodded. "Go Team Summers."

"Go Team Summers," Scott echoed.

They high-fived.

"Really, though. It's unsanitary in here. Do you know how to clean—"

"Isn't this past your bedtime?"

"Curfew!"

Alex laughed because whether Scott liked it or not, he had basically admitted to having a bedtime. Alex ruffled his hair and Scott headed away.

He only gained a few yards before Alex called, "Hey, twerp, nice jammies!"

Scott turned and held up three fingers. "Read between the lines, jerk!"

They smiled at each other, then Scott went on his way. It was after his curfew. He would go back to his room, really he would. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to wander, but since he was up, he might as well get a glass of water.

Everything about the day had him in knots and he wasn't thrilled to be more worried about his glowing eyes than what had happened to Ororo. Ruth described it as a white blaze around the edges of his glasses, something that had never happened before. His ability was supposed to be coming under his control!

He sighed. Like anything was ever so simple!

"Scott."

_Oh, shit._

"Ummm… hi, Professor."

He and Ruth sat in the study, and while Scott supposed he should have guessed they would be there, he hadn't.

"You're not meant to be wandering around this late."

Scott nodded. He knew that. "I just…" What? Couldn't sleep? He had tried reading, but it didn't distract him the way it usually did. "…I was going to get some water."

"Go on, then."

Charles and Ruth sat in silence for a moment. Had Erik been there, the chess board between them would have been in use rather than a dusty prop. This would have been a very different place, had Erik been there—but he wasn't and Ruth was and Charles was quite content with that, despite the aggravating knowing look on her face.

He sighed. "I don't know what's gotten into him lately."

Ruth laughed into the glass at her lips. It wasn't often someone blew bubbles in whiskey.

"If you have something to say…"

"He is testing you," she said.

Her lips glistened, damp, and he looked at the board to stop himself thinking what she would taste like.

"I've given him no reason to."

"No, not that—this is not to undermine you. Think, there are a dozen ways around this house, your people would have built it so they did not have to see those who cleaned their messes and cooked their food."

Charles wanted to respond with indignation, but he knew Ruth was correct. His ancestors were clearly well off and there were indeed several passages. There was a small staircase called the servants' stairs. Those had been quite different times, of course. Very different. Very distant.

"But he walks past the study. He wants you to see him. He wants the attention, is part of it, and to know how long you will love him. He wants to know that even if he breaks the rules, you will love him. My son did this; all children do."

"Scott is not my son."

"But you do love him."

Charles raised an eyebrow and sipped his whiskey.

Ruth leaned forward and rested her hand on his. "It is hard," she said. "I know. To be responsible for people, it is hard."

"Something happened to him. Something changed him, got into him before he could fight back—it's a part of the mind I cannot control or understand."

"They are good kids. They will be all right."

"Thank you for what you did today. I don't know that I could have handled things as well as you did—and I don't know what to tell her when she does want to talk," he admitted, finding himself leaning in toward her, too. "Hate is a heavy burden and she's so young."

"Let me. Ororo and I have a rapport."

"If you're sure… and I suppose you're right," Charles ceded. He moved his hand away from hers—what was he _doing_!—and downed the last of his drink. "You're sure you don't mind talking to her?"

"Not at all. There is little to be embarrassed of once you have taught someone about tampons."

The look his face made her laugh out loud.

Had he not been lost in his own thoughts, Charles might have noticed another mind nearby as he made his way to bed. It was the only way he could have noticed someone who moved silently. He certainly would not have heard her.

So that distraction proved lucky for the one-time thief. Ororo noticed Charles, though, and slipped back into the shadows until he passed by.

She went to Scott's bedroom and knocked.

The strange thing was that she kept thinking about it, but everything felt so… American. So foreign. She had never been this cold in Cairo and the calm, sharp feeling of snow no longer seemed fascinating. They had not invented it, that sort of stupidity, but she had never been forced out of a shop in Egypt because her skin was too light.

For stealing things, yes…

Scott opened the door.

"Ororo."

"It's cold."

Scott looked puzzled, but he nodded. "Yes, it is."

Ororo kicked at the floor. She didn't understand how Ruth could be so accepting when she wanted to wear jeans, but the store only had these stupid dresses for girls to sleep in. The cold forced her to pick something besides a t-shirt.

"I want to stay with you. Everything is so different!" she whined, making her eyes go wide. "It's cold, and everything is different here and it's not home and—"

"Ororo," he interrupted.

She briefly debated pouting and decided against it. She needn't have bothered: he stepped back so she could enter.

It was the greatest loneliness of America, sleep. It was even worse than not speaking the language, not looking like the others at school, not sharing their culture or values. It was the denial of a basic comfort even babies understood.

Even so brief a time in the cold and both of them needed a few moments.

"You surprise me," Ororo murmured.

He was awkward, that wasn't a surprise, but he had let her in and didn't push away when she cuddled against him. Among the Maasai, she had a friend, someone much softer. Scott was like a branch with a thin layer of skin stretched around it, cuddly as a tree.

"I grew up in an orphanage."

"You did?"

From the sound in the darkness, she guessed he nodded.

"What about Alex?"

"Nah," Scott murmured. "He was adopted."

"What's that?"

"Adopted? It means another family let him be their kid."

“Is that different from foster?” she asked. Ororo was a foster child, mostly because Professor Xavier telepathically made the nuns decide an unmarried couple, one of them Jewish, were good parents.

“Adopted is more permanent. And you take their name, if you want.”

Ororo considered that. If it was true, she had been adopted, too. She had been adopted into a street family, others living rough who took her in when she was only a little girl. They never used those terms and her family was strict. Bringing in nothing meant going hungry. But they had each other, they were together, and it meant everything in the world.

Then again, that was before she needed a coat.

She yelped. "What's that!"

Something had stepped on her feet.

"It's Artie," Scott said.

His cat. Ororo sighed. She did not completely understand the keeping of pets, but at least she knew Artie was no threat.

"Do you ever miss your home?"

It was not something she would ever ask, just little words she would never say except in the dark. Except now.

"This is my home."


	4. December 20, 1963

"Hey, 'Ro, you awake yet?" Scott asked.

Ororo didn't answer. She knew it was morning from the faint light behind her eyelids and knew it was cold because her nose and ears felt about ready to snap off. The last thing she wanted was to wake up. She was comfortable and warm under the covers.

That was the disadvantage to curling up in Scott's bed. There was companionship and warmth and they told secrets in the dark when she hadn't known he had any. But he woke up in the mornings when she wanted to stay in bed and be lazy because she could. Because in America you didn't walk half a mile to the river and have to get moving before the heat.

"C'mon, I know you're awake."

Ororo said nothing.

"I know 'cause you snore."

Ororo opened her eyes. "You fart in bed," she retorted.

Scott laughed. "Why is it girls seem to think they don't fart?"

"Girls fart."

"Yeah, I know girls fart, you fart. You fart in your sleep, it punctuates the snoring!"

Ororo poked at his belly. Scott squirmed away, but they had limited space with neither of them willing to risk the cold. He laughed and tried to push her away until he was laughing too hard.

"Victory!" she announced. "Victory by… huh…" Her expression slipped as she tried to recall the word. "Victory by… what's the word for what I did to you just now?"

"Tickling."

"Victory by tickling!"

They laughed. Feeling left out, Artie mewled. Her very well trained human scooped her up and scratched her chin.

"I guess she is a little… cute," Ororo allowed. 'Cute' did not appeal to her. Cute meant vulnerable and reminded her of what she had once been—then add in the way Laurie used the term to describe Sean and the world pretty much stood on its head. "The way her tongue sticks out, all pink. That's cute."

Right?

"I wouldn't know," Scott murmured.

"Right. Uh, sorry about that, blind man."

"Whatever, blondie," he retorted. "So… are you going to tell me what's been bothering you?"

She considered huffing off, but decided against it. The floor was too cold for that nonsense. Instead she snuggled under the covers again and issued an affectedly weary, "Stop trying to be Charles." Mostly she did not want to talk about it. She wanted to go on sulking uninterrupted.

"I'm not."

Many of the men she had observed in Cairo were not so different from the men in the United States. It was less true here, with Ruth, but plenty of men were loud, belligerent, and aggressively stupid. Meanwhile her friend was so soft-spoken, sometimes she wondered if she ought to teach Scott how to wear the hijab.

She sighed. "Snow was supposed to be fun."

"Hm?"

"Snow. I waited for so long to see it, to feel it, like it was a part of me the way heat is. But they ruined it. I tried to make snow and I couldn't. Now I don't want to, not ever."

Ororo left her remarks there and Scott stayed quiet a while, letting the low rumble of Artie's purr dominate the conversation.

"What if we changed it?" he asked.

"Hm?"

"Come on. Let's play in the snow."

"I don't want to—"

"My bed, my rules. Besides, it'll be fun, I promise."

Ororo groaned and crawled out from under the covers. "And put your new jeans on," she reminded him. "I don't know why you like the shabby clothes so much but no one likes it when Charles is in a mood."

"Professor Xavier doesn't care what I wear."

Ororo laughed and left, heading to her own bedroom to change.

At first, Scott insisted he couldn't wear his new clothes. A person ought to wash new clothes, he said, given how many people tried them on at the store. He managed to argue for two days that they were damp. Ororo was right though. The Professor was running low on patience with the torn, shabby jeans.

Scott pulled on the stupid new jeans. They felt like sandpaper.

When he and Ororo sat outside, talking her through snow proved easier than he might have expected. She felt it. She felt the weather, every drop of water, every hint of moisture. She felt the tension like a gentle headache when there was no water in the air… and the next thing they knew, flakes of snow drifted down.

"You're doing it!" Scott observed. "That's great!"

She rolled her eyes. "You said this would be fun."

Scott grinned and Ororo would swear that if she could see his eyes they would be glinting with mischief.

* * *

 

"You think Charles would mind if we had a tree?" Sean asked.

"A tree?" Alex echoed. "A Christmas tree?"

Sean nodded.

They sat in the lounge, enjoying a lack of homework and warming up with coffee that might, possibly, have a hint of something stronger in it.

Alex did not have the fondest memories of Christmas, mostly because it made his adoptive mother sad and things were more than tense at home when she was sad. He liked what Christmas did to other people, though. Everyone wanted to be happy and festive.

Sean came from a less turbulent background. In many ways, he was a kid. It was a difficult thing to fault someone for, wanting Christmas.

"Doubt he'd complain," Alex said.

"Yeah."

"I'll ask."

"Serious?"

Alex set his coffee down and a snowball smacked him in the chest. A second later, before he or Sean finished processing the snowball in the lounge, another flew at Sean. They both noticed who had thrown the snowballs by then. The twerp stood in the doorway, grinning.

Alex and Sean looked at one another. They bolted out of their seats at the same time and gave chase.

If they had been thinking, they would have noticed that Scott hesitated a second too long. They would have noticed that a boy who outran both of them during krav maga warm-ups nearly let them catch him. They would have noticed—Alex might have known from the look on his brother's face.

Only they weren't thinking so clearly. They were just chasing a kid who needed his butt kicked in a snowball fight.

Scott ran for the front door and held it wide open. He didn't leave it open—he held it open.

"Now!"

Alex was a few steps ahead of Sean. He noticed the figure in the snow first and skidded to a stop as the snowstorm attacked them. The two were white-painted in seconds.

Scott scrambled out from his hiding spot behind the door and went to join Ororo. "Well?" he asked.

"Fun," she admitted.

"Now run."

"What?"

They tricked Alex and Sean, giving them an easy first shot. From there any sense of order melted away. It became a snowball fight, and then snow sparring, then Alex holding Scott down and stuffing handfuls of snow into his sweater. Sean and Ororo were not actually siblings, so they knocked each other down a few times and called a truce.

Eventually all four trooped back indoors. There was snow melting on the floor.

"I'll clean up," Scott offered. "It was my idea." He did not need to explain himself and he knew it: none of the others would argue to mop up. He had shed his soaked sweater and one t-shirt, leaving him in a long-sleeved thermal top.

"How many shirts were you wearing?" Alex asked.

"It was cold. I dressed in layers."

Alex laughed and ruffled Scott's hair.

The others headed into the kitchen; hot drinks on a cold day were cliché for a reason. Returning armed with mop, rags, and bucket, Scott asked, "Hey, do you remember when we were kids—"

"No," Alex interrupted.

"Not a little?" Scott pressed. Ororo and Sean traded glances, each confirming the other's awkwardness. They knew this wouldn't go well. "You had this hat—you chewed on everything? Mom tied it on but you'd always manage—"

Two things happened with unfortunate timing. The first was Charles taking himself out of research for five minutes. The other was Alex snapping, "Just shut the fuck up, Cinderella."

Scott looked at him in disbelief and Alex remembered a moment too late that most of those Disney princesses seemed to be orphans. He knew that was why Scott looked so stricken. He was sensitive about his orphan status.

And, really, Alex should have apologized. He knew there was no reason the next word out of his mouth was not 'sorry'.

Instead he said, "Aw, lighten up, orphan boy."

That was when Charles joined the conversation. That was the first thing he heard. He had not forgotten the night a few months ago when Alex goaded Scott by claiming his parents had abandoned him. Alex and Scott did not know they were brothers at the time, but it was too much for Scott and Charles had not like hearing it, either.

He disliked hearing Alex lean on that same sensitive topic and snapped, "Alexander Summers!"

"It was a joke," Alex grumbled.

Charles opened his mouth.

Seeing the look on his face, Scott asked, quickly, "Why doesn't Alex get middle-named?"

He rarely misbehaved enough to warrant it, but a few times, Scott had been given his full name. If what Alex had said to him was rude enough to warrant an 'Alexander', where was his middle name?

Having a handful of teenagers, plus an Alex, taught Charles that even a paraplegic could walk a tightrope where maintaining the peace was concerned. "If I knew Alex's middle name—" he began.

"Cole!"

Scott needed to hear it so badly. Everyone heard the need in his voice, though no one quite understood it.

"Alexander Cole Summers, if I ever hear you speaking that way to your little brother again you will be washing dishes until everyone forgets we are meant to have a rotation."

There were three very different interpretations of that remark.

Ororo's was that there was a way to avoid washing dishes. It just meant tricking Alex into cussing out Scott in front of Charles—and if she needed to, she could do that.

Sean heard the simple joy of a close friend being told off.

As for Alex and Scott…

"Oh, I told you!"

Alex bolted across the room and grabbed Scott in a headlock.

 _"I'm older!"_ he crowed. _"I'm the older brother!"_

"We were talking about Christmas," Sean said. "Alex and I."

"Yeah," Alex said. Scott tried to push him off and Alex tightened his grip. "We were thinking it might be nice to have a tree. Like, if you didn't mind."

"Um, actually, it would—I would really like to have a tree," Sean added.

Scott huffed. "Who cares. Who cares about Christmas, anyway!"

No one in the group had a reputation for normalcy, but that remark earned stares—even from Charles. Scott had been shy last Christmas. He had not been angry. Of course Christmas could be stressful, but who hated Christmas?

"You don't like Christmas?" Sean asked.

Scott ducked away from Alex and left, shoving the air out of his way.

"So… no tree?" Sean surmised.

The disappointment in his tone was clear and a quick glimpse into his mind gave Charles a surprise. There would be no tree, Sean thought, because it upset Charles's pet.

Charles had changed over the past fourteen months and much of that was due to Scott. He had been prepared to sulk around his mostly-empty mansion like Dorian Gray's portrait, until Moira found the boy. It was Moira Charles wanted to stay, Moira he wanted to be a part of his life. If she had, he would be a very different person now.

He wanted a partner. Instead he was given a charge—another Raven, another Erik in a half-broken child. Yes, Scott mattered as a moral obligation. There was good in him so much closer to the surface. And yes, Scott mattered as a person. Charles cared about all the students, but Scott was almost like family.

Had that been so obvious?

Had he shown so much favoritism?

"No," Charles told Sean. "Get the tree. We should have Christmas."

"Hey. Let's just do it," Sean suggested. "It's barely snowing."

Less enthused but still interested, Alex said, "Sure. Right now?"

"No, let's sit around and talk about it. In fact, let's form a committee."

"Let's have an election."

"I nominate myself."

"I'm not voting for you. I intend to run against you."

While Sean and Alex bantered about Christmas Congress, Charles and Hank shared a look of superiority. It was softened by the knowledge that they were in not, really, superior. In fact, they enjoyed Alex and Sean. It didn't matter that Sean was too young to vote, let alone run for office. There were no rules in the Christmas Congress.

There were, however, surprises.

"I want to go."

Like most thirteen-year-olds, Ororo thought she was at a peak of maturity. The look on her face was certainly determined, but with the overalls, pigtails, and pink coat, that determination was more… cute. She would have been livid if she knew.

The silence stretched on too long and she repeated, "I want to go. I want to get the tree with you."

"Ororo," Charles began, gently, "are you sure that's wise after—"

"You can't keep me trapped here just because I'm African," she replied, something in her tone suggesting she was learning American cadences of disrespect, how to defy while keeping just within the lines of acceptable behavior.

Charles shook his head. "No, I suppose not. All right—if Alex and Sean say you may."

Ororo gave them a look somewhere between a plea and a command. Suddenly very on the spot, the boys looked away and made awkward, vaguely positive sounds.

_'Look after her. Keep her close.'_

Sean and Alex both received the telepathic message and both nodded just slightly.

"I'm driving," Sean announced.

"Keep tellin' yourself that," Alex retorted.

Alex did not have a car. Generally he borrowed Ruth's whenever possible, but asking to borrow a Jewish woman's car for a Christmas tree seemed rude. He asked Charles instead and the three of them clambered in. Ororo raced for the font, but Sean was bigger.

"No way."

"Alex!"

Alex looked between the two of them. He had a few years on Sean, but never expected to be forced to mediate. Wasn't that why they stuck close to Charles? Shirking responsibility?

He unlocked the door. "We can all squeeze in. Whoever doesn't like it can sit in the back."

Ororo came from a background with far less expectation of privacy and personal space than one found in the United States, and Sean was too proud to give in. She turned the dial for the radio.

"What song is this?"

"I got no idea," Alex replied.

"Your brother would know."

"My brother is scrawny and whines a lot."

"Yeah, but he knows music."

"Hank would know."

Alex switched off the radio. When Ororo reached to turn it on again, he tugged one of her pigtails. She shoved him.

"What the hell!" Sean objected. "You can't do that while he's driving! We could all die!"

"Oh, was that her?" Alex asked. "I thought a gnat bit me."


	5. December 24, 1963

**December 24, 1963**

Ororo remembered little of her parents and if she ever had a Christmas, she didn't remember that at all. She quickly decided that she liked it, though. It seemed to be about a loving, familial defiance of the season. They brought a green, fragrant tree inside while the snow fell. The shop where they bought that tree had been hastily set up, little more than a parking lot surrounded by chain link, but nevertheless Ororo loved the perversity of a snowball fight in a place of business and the way nobody minded even when they hit a stranger by accident.

There had been a moment, at the tree store, when someone gave Ororo a strange look. Alex had put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. The look on his face scared off any comments.

She liked it. She liked the tree and the way it smelled. She liked when Sean taught her to make paper chains and they spent two hours putting them together until they were set to drown in paper.

It was Christmas Eve now. Ororo and Ruth were in the kitchen, playing with dough; even Hank had emerged from his science hibernation to join them. Ruth went for stars while Hank rolled a series of short ropes.

"…and he watches you at all times," Ruth said. She had been building up a scary story for a while. "He judges your every move. And then—the night before Christmas— _tonight_ —he pays a visit to every home. He sneaks in through the chimney and—"

Hank cleared his throat. "You may have a few details confused."

"No, no. I think I am right."

"Father Christmas brings presents to good children. The reindeer work with him because… well, because they want to. But not from hypnosis."

Ororo shrugged. "I like Ruth's version."

Hank wound together two of his gingerbread ropes, added a ball, and pressed the form between two pieces of baking parchment. He held up the results for Ruth.

"Gingerbread man! Delightful! Show me." As he did, she added, "And the reindeer are not nice. Think of how they treated poor Rudolph."

"Who's Rudolph?" Ororo asked.

"Mutant reindeer," Ruth explained.

"That's not," Hank began. Then, "Actually, that is fairly accurate."

Ruth nodded. "His nose glows red. The reindeer all laughed at him until Santa showed them that he was useful. Then they accepted him. Although Santa took his sweet time in doing so; he might have ended this nonsense much sooner. But he did not. So, this is Santa Claus for you."

"Okay," Hank ceded, "but the purpose of the cookies is not to appease his wrath."

Ruth shrugged. "I perhaps embellished a little."

Ororo giggled. She liked the story of Father Christmas, even though she did not fully understand which pieces were Hank's version and which were Ruth's.

The smell of baking gingerbread cookies drew out the others. Alex, of course, started by biting the head off of his and chewing with his mouth open until Charles shot him a warning look. He continued to act like a cannibal with his gingerbread man, but a civilized cannibal. One who knew to put forks on the left and used a napkin to blot the guts from his mouth.

"Have you seen your brother?" Charles asked, having drawn Alex aside.

Alex shook his head. "Not in a few days," he said, looking at the others. "Since the snowball fight." Not having a brother was simpler sometimes.

"Alex, I don't know what happened between the two of you—"

"I can't take care of him, okay?"

Something softened in Charles's expression. He didn't ask, but Alex inferred the question.

"He's been riding me about forgetting our parents. I was just a kid, what am I supposed to say?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"Or you're bein' stupid." Neither of them had noticed Ororo eavesdropping on the conversation. She could do that, sneak, and if Charles did not listen to his telepathy even he might not notice. She licked crumbs from her fingertips. "Both of you. Seems to be generic."

"Genetic," Charles corrected.

"Yes, as I said. He doesn't want you to remember, he wants you to care."

"And how do you know?" Alex retorted.

"Who's asking?" Ororo shot back, eyebrows raised. "My parents are dead. I have dark skin here and light skin in Africa and no big brother. It would be nice for someone to understand what that feels like. And I'm not a little bitch like your brother—he said it first!" before Charles could scold her for swearing.

Had he been the type, Charles would have pinched the bridge of his nose to drive off the headache. He was used to this, though. Teenagers bickered. "That is not an excuse."

Before he said anything about the substance of Ororo's little speech, Alex nodded. He understood, too.

"Oh—and I also know because he told me."

"Ororo, are you cold?" Charles asked. "You never take off that coat."

"I like my coat."

"Hey," Alex said. "Thanks, gnat."

Ororo, who was learning to behave American, stuck out her tongue.

Alex had a good deal to think about, but peace enough to rejoin the others. Even Hank could be good company with enough gingerbread.

Eventually everyone began to drift away. Sean and Ororo went to bed. Alex used an obscure euphemism that might have been a reference to any number of private activities and no one cared to ask for specificity. Hank returned to his lab. Ruth set to washing the dishes, which had been neglected.

Charles kept her company. Or, he meant to, but he found himself watching her more than chatting.

"Do you have Christmas traditions?" Ruth asked. "I realize, no one has asked you."

"No, I don't have any," Charles replied. He came from a rather cold sort of family, matter-of-fact people. And he had everything he could possibly want, let alone need, which lessened the gifting aspect of Christmas.

Ruth shrugged. "You have not mentioned any gifts you might like, either. Not that I plan to go shopping on Christmas Eve, even I have my limits, but…"

Charles laughed. "No," he said, "I have everything I want," and the yearning in his voice was palpable.

She turned to face him and Charles could have sworn she dressed that way just for him—but of course she didn't. There was so much about her. He loved her personality, but he was physically attracted to her, too, and the way she dressed… moved… it used to be normal for him to feel this way about a woman. Now, since, it seemed strange.

"Nothing?" she asked.

He was sure she only dressed that way because she liked to feel beautiful. (Which she was.) It wasn't for the kids or Sean and Alex, who were practically kids, and Hank wouldn't have noticed if she were naked. But it wasn't for _him_. He just enjoyed it.

He cleared his throat. "Ah, later, would you—"

"The tree?"

He smiled. "The tree."

"Of course. So you do not have surprise presents, that must be… terrible."

"I'm in a wheelchair," he observed, "'terrible' is relative."

Ruth shrugged like she had not noticed his paraplegia. "But no surprise presents! Is that why you do not want anything?"

"I… there's nothing."

Ruth shrugged off her sweater and that shirt did not fit her in all the best ways. She leaned into the fridge and grabbed two Cokes. There was plenty of alcohol in the house, but with the kids (plus Sean and Alex), leaving alcohol so readily available was offering it to the first comer.

Charles raised the bottle. "Cheers."

"L'chaim."

"Charles, I know you like me."

He nearly coughed Coke through his nose, managed to swallow, and, "Of course I like you. You're wonderful with the children and—"

"No," she interrupted. "You _like_ me."

It was true and made him profoundly uncomfortable. Charles felt the beginnings of humiliation brewing. Why did they need to have this conversation? She would never see him that way and he would never ask her to.

"You like to look at me," Ruth continued. That was true. "And I believe you have feelings for me, yes?"

"Yes," he admitted. "Yes, Ruth, I have feelings for you, but you must understand, I would never act on them. It would never be more than feelings."

Sounding confused if not put off, she asked, "Why not?"

Charles met her eyes. He could not read Ruth's thoughts. Although he had studied languages—as one did—although he spoke French and read passable Latin—he could not read this woman's thoughts because they were in Hebrew. They were in the cadences and rhythms of Hebrew, a dance he could not dance even if he had legs.

He sighed. "Please, enough. I know you wouldn't look twice at me, not as I am now. Perhaps before, but—a cripple?"

The sound Ruth made could only be described as one of disgust. Charles didn't blame her. He could accept what he was all but when faced with Ruth, with how badly he wished to be a man again.

She slammed her bottle down. " _Kus ema!_ You stupid, stupid man!"

He was many things, yes, but not that.

"I beg your pardon!"

"Why are the pretty ones always so dumb?" she mourned.

Then she leaned nearer and, before he could infer it, before he could actually look at his surroundings and realize what was happening, she kissed him. It was not a pitying kiss. It was not a conciliatory peck on the cheek. This was an unambiguous, impassioned display.

"Ruth…"

She kissed him again.

* * *

 

Alex took a gasp of pride and swallowed it. Then he rapped on the bedroom door. "Scotty, it's me. Open up."

Sounds of movement told him Scott was awake. Awake and willing to talk to him? But, yes, he had to be. Even Scott wouldn't spend Christmas Eve in a sulk. Besides, Alex had distinctly told him to open the door. Scott obeyed more than he breathed.

Only, this time, he didn't.

"I'll bring you a cookie," Alex offered. "You won't have to see anyone or smile or anything."

For a moment he thought Scott might not answer. Then, "I don't like gingerbread."

No, of course he didn't.

Alex tried the doorknob.

He sighed. "You better not be wreckin' your eyesight in there," he warned. Then he pushed open the door.

Scott sat on the bed, a book propped open against his knees. He did not even look up. "Leave me alone, Alex."

"Stop sulking, it's Christmas," Alex retorted.

Scott shrugged. "Who fucking cares," he murmured.

Alex looked around the room. He could have guessed his brother would be such a neat freak. This place was not only tidy, it had been dusted recently. Library books were lined up against the wall and the photo of Scott and their parents was on the nightstand. There were no dirty clothes on the floor, no knick-knacks, no posters on the wall.

It was like a hotel room, only slightly more impersonal.

"Mom cared."

Scott looked up from his book. Then he looked back to it. "No she didn't."

"Look, I'm not exactly good at this, okay? But I'm trying to help here, so give me a break, wouldja?"

"Dad liked Christmas," Scott said. He closed his book, set it aside, and sat up straight. "I mean, Mom played along, but looking back I don't think she liked it that much."

"You know I don't remember them," Alex said.

Scott nodded. "Kinda thought I might be able to… I dunno. Jog your memory or something."

"You mind if I…?"

"Go ahead."

Standing in the doorway was starting to feel awkward. Alex took a seat on the edge of Scott's bed.

"Why do you hate Christmas so much, anyway? Is it the shopping?"

"I did my shopping ages ago."

Alex was surprised neither that Scott overlooked his joking tone nor that Scott finished his Christmas shopping probably mid-June. Instead, he asked, "Yeah?"

Scott shrugged. "I couldn't find anything for the Professor. I wrote him this letter, but it seemed dumb."

"You wrote him a letter?"

"Shut up."

"About what?"

"It's personal. Shut up," Scott repeated. "What do you buy for someone who owns a castle?"

It was rhetorical but a pretty good point, so Alex returned to his original question: "So? Why do you hate Christmas?"

"'Cause. 'Cause I never had it."

Alex couldn't help it: he laughed. "Who knew you were so petty!"

"Christmas in the orphanage was—like sometimes we had gifts, but they were all donor gifts. Then the next time you were in church you had to sit there and wonder who gave you, y'know, the sweater or whatever—it was usually clothes and you knew someone in that room was looking at you and feeling like a saint. And it was still cold, and I hate the cold. The… the lab was cold."

Although the basics of Scott's history had been made clear, Alex did not ask for more details. He tried not to think on the subject. Really, Scott was his brother, not some skinny kid with Frankenstein scars. Now he realized he should have thought a little more about it.

"I didn't know you went to church," Alex said, feeling stupid. He wanted to say something right and meaningful—something like Charles would say.

Scott nodded. "Mary Our Queen," he replied. "Choir an' everythin."

They had lived on different sides of the city, something Alex realized from the parish name. "I went to St. Mary's."

"St. Mary's on Q?"

Alex shook his head. "Mary Magdalene, on 19th."

"Oh. Huh."

"Dude." He chuckled. "Choir? With the dress?"

"Cassock!"

Alex laughed. Scott punched him, but not hard and certainly not hard enough to shut him up.

Alex held out his arm. After a moment's hesitation like that wasn't exactly what he wanted, Scott shifted nearer. It wasn't enough, of course, but Alex didn't know what else to do.

"I am petty," Scott said, "I know. I should be happier for the others—"

"Screw that."

Scott chuckled weakly.

"And nothing's going to happen. I won't let anyone hurt you."

His mind flashed back to Darwin and Alex winced, telling himself that was irrelevant. It didn't matter. Scott was immune to Alex's power. Besides, Alex's control was greatly improved. If any accidents were to happen—which was unlikely—Scott would be okay.

Of course Alex knew this was not about physical well-being.

"I wasn't lying about Mom and Dad," he said. "I don't remember them. But I wish I did. Maybe we could get some cookies and you can tell me about them."

"I don't like gingerbread—"

"Suck it up, choir boy."

Which is how, not five minutes later, Scott and Alex came to be camped on the floor, looking at the Christmas tree. Scott didn't seem to mind gingerbread so much, either. He swallowed a mouthful and said, "When he was gone, she was different. Like… one time she made a fort for us. She hung sheets from the couch and… I don't know. Just this really great fort. Sometimes just for fun. We would even have dinner in there. And one time there was this big storm and you were scared—"

"Of a storm?"

"Yeah—well—I remember saying you were scared."

Alex was not a cuddler. He had not been the type of boy who wanted a wriggly puppy to hug and as a man tended to express physical affection through high-fives, ruffled hair, and occasionally a fistfight. Tonight he was willing to make an exception, though, and he kept an arm around his brother.

"It was a big storm," Scott continued. "We were all in the fort—"

"Mom too?"

"Yeah. Mom too. She told us stories, sang to us… she was really patient. She was never mad, even when you peed the bed."

Alex punched him in the shoulder and Scott laughed.

"What about Dad?"

Scott went quiet. He nibbled at his gingerbread man like he wanted to eat each finger separately. "He was gone for a long time."

"Where?"

"I dunno. Germany, I think. In the war. I don't remember him so well. But he was strong. He would pick us up and throw us in the air. When he came home, I barely remembered him. I remember staying close to her—but you ran right up to him. You were never shy. You haven't changed, you know. Not from what I remember. I mean, Mom and Dad—if they could—they could step right back into our lives, they'd know you straight away."

* * *

 

Ruth pulled on her sweatshirt. Even being indoors called for warm clothing, but she took her time with it, tugging out each sleeve and smoothing the fabric.

"All right," Charles declared, "I no longer believe that was anything but for my benefit."

He remained under the covers, comfortably warm—although cold where he felt a ghost of her skin on his.

Ruth grinned. She turned and kissed him. "Mm. I like being able to do this."

"As do I. Ruth… I want more from you than a few hours of your time."

Charles had been attracted to her from the first moment they met, but that was purely physical. Over the past months she had become more to him. He cared for her. Loved her, maybe. And while he did not regret the past—had it been hours already?—this wasn't like going home with some stranger in a bar.

She stroked his cheek. "I know. You are more to me than recreation. Now, where is it?"

"In the closet."

Charles had not been overly attached to the idea of Christmas—not opposed, either, but he scarcely had his heart set on it. Once he realized how much Christmas mattered to some of the others, though, he set about ensuring a few things. If they were going to do Christmas they would do it properly and that meant nobody left out.

Ruth picked up the parcels and laughed. "You wrap more cleanly than I do!"

"Do you mind, playing Santa?"

"Of course not. Charles, we have a tree in the house and are giving the children gifts. This is not a Christian holiday. This is a celebration. Just a very good celebration."

While she was gone, Charles stretched and took a moment to reflect on what had happened. Christmas seemed terribly complicated and delightful. Most of the others were enjoying the season and they seemed, as so many do, to have simply agreed to be happy. They agreed to have cookies and give gifts and smile and be warm.

He had never anticipated this, though. He looked at the wheelchair, the one he assumed precluded him from engaging in romantic relationships because who loved half a man? Not that Ruth said she loved him, but he thought she just might.

As though drawn by the thought, Ruth burst into the room.

"It is not a school," she observed, settling against him. "Not really. This is not your school, they are not your students—this is family."

She took Charles's hand and laid it against her head.

"Read my mind."

"You know I can't—"

"I have something to the surface for you. Read my mind."

Charles closed his eyes and tried. He heard Ruth's thoughts, the tones and sounds he couldn't understand, but she was right. One image she had brought to the surface and he saw that more clearly than anything else:

Alex and Scott had fallen asleep leaning against the sofa, watching the Christmas tree.

Ruth grinned. "This is your gift to yourself, you know this, yes?" And there in those six words, his world:

"Your family. Happy Christmas, Charles Xavier."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end!
> 
> If you have enjoyed my story, I hope you'll keep an eye out for the next installment, 'For Protection From Monsters'. The X-Men will be back with strife, angst, action... and a situation in which some archive warnings apply.


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